Drown The Hatchet
by PirateMinx
Summary: John's wedding is looming. To cement their rekindled friendship, Sherlock takes them for drinks but even on their night out, crime follows them like a shadow desperate to prise a chasm between them.
1. Chapter 1

He replaced the now empty glass to the table, observing the thin film of condensation building around the rim. _Alcohol. Such a waste of my time. Clearly having no effect on me whatsoever. Affect? Effect. Definitely._

"Can I tempt you gentleman?"

_No_. Sherlock turned his head however, his brown tousled hair bouncing slightly with the movement. A slim brunette had paused at the table, hand perfectly balancing a tray of shot glasses holding vibrant and almost neon coloured liquid. _Barmaid. Twenty-five. Mature student. Boyfriend. Unhappy. Cheating. With manager._

"What are they?"

"These are glitter-bombs, you've got your jaeger bombs just there, and these are the staff's design, 'Chilli Kiss' – chilli flavoured vodka with tequila and WKD."

"Eurgh," John Watson blanched, draining the last of his beer. "He's the boss," he said, gesturing to Sherlock.

Sherlock had never attended one of these things, let alone organised one. Wasn't the point of a stag do to get the future groom drunk? He pulled out a twenty pound note and placed it flat on the tray. "Two of each please."

"Very brave," the bar-maid winked, placing the shot glasses down in the middle of the table. "Enjoy boys."

"Boys -?" John exhaled, picking up a glass and eyeing it suspiciously. "Whoa, what's that?" he said, pointing to a scrap of paper that had rolled towards Sherlock.

"Phone number," Sherlock replied nonchalantly, scrunching it up into a ball and discarding to one side. "Clearly on the look-out for some extra company tonight." He too picked up a glass. "Bottoms up."

Forty-five minutes, seven shots and two more beers each later, and something strange was happening. The walls of the bar seemed to be warping and distorting, the tables shrinking and moving of their own accord, and the floor rushing up to meet them. The air around them seemed viscous yet hazy, as though they were sitting in some sort of misty soup. Lasers and disco lights flashed and span intermittently, and faceless men and women seemed to be stumbling and falling all around them.

Sherlock tried to turn his head, but felt as though his skull had been weighted; the movement seemed to take an age and the nausea beat his face to its destination. He blinked to try and keep the wave of bile down. What was happening to him? Had they been drugged? With difficulty, he turned back to try and spot John but his eyes were deceiving him and acting too slowly. He pushed back from the table and got to his feet, staggering backwards and it took all his effort not to fall. Someone pushed roughly into him, or he fell into them. A sound fell from his lips, half apology, half indignation but the reveller had already passed by, pulling a laughing woman by the wrist.

_Water. _He needed water. His tongue was arid and dry and his face felt pinched and parched, his eyelids drooping and heavy. His mind seemed sodden and slow and he didn't like it. Leaving the table behind he lurched into some semblance of a stumbling walk, and followed what he hoped were signs for the bathroom.

Groups of people had migrated from the dance floor and were congregated in pockets all over the place, under stairwells, in the corridors, blocking doorways. The air was thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and the sound of drunken laughter. Sherlock put a palm to his eyeballs and rubbed vigorously. He gripped the polished bannister firmly and as delicately as possibly, stepped over two women sobbing into their tissues on the bottom stairs.

The bathroom was too bright, far too bright. Strip lights that seemed to cover the entire ceiling filled the room with bright white light. But it was what was needed to shake some sobriety into him. Leaning over the sink, Sherlock splashed ice cold water into his face and blinked out his reflection. His eyes were a little bloodshot, but otherwise he looked passably normal. He was genuinely taken aback at the effect a couple of beverages could have had on him… He was normally immune to the ailments that plagued the normal.

By the third splash, he was feeling moderately normal, apart from the dull ache that had begun to formulate in the lower regions of his temples. He gripped the porcelain sink with his large pale hands and stared hard at himself, willing himself back to normal. Something moved behind him.

It was gone as quick as a flash, but his sharp blue eyes, even now, had caught it. Something moving in the background. Subtle, fast, gone. Sherlock focused again. The door out of the bathroom had opened when a man from the cubicle had left, bypassing the sink to get more drink, but now there was a second man at the urinal just behind him who had not noticed when he had come in. His dark eyebrows furrowed into a frown. There was no sound coming from the man, no movement whatsoever. He was simply standing with his back to the detective, silently facing the wall.

It all happened in an instant. Sherlock began to turn and in the same instant the silent reveller turned too, fast as lightning, something flashing in his palm as his arms spiralled through the air. Sherlock dodged the blade and used the man's momentum against him, sending him barrelling into the sinks and smashing into the chipped mirror. Forcing his instincts to come back quickly, Sherlock ripped open the door and pushed into the crowded hallway.

"John!"

Several men turned at the panicked shout, none of them Watson. Women pressed up against him as he surged forward with the crowd, some heading for the toilets, others grasping at his coat and shirt hopefully.

"Hey, watch it!"

Sherlock turned his head, assuming the angry voice was aimed at him, but then he saw his assailant bursting through the crowd, shoving people left and right or to the ground. Screams and pockets of shouts erupted and then the long knife was glinting through the air again, swiping viciously at the air where Sherlock's head and neck had been just a half second ago. A fist came out of nowhere, and connected hard with his sharp cheekbone, and he felt himself sprawling heavily into the wall, teetering dangerously on the edge of the steps, quickly followed by a second and third blow. Instinctively, Sherlock reached out and brought the heavy set man forwards and to him, reigning in his blows and pulling him off balance. The knife fell from his slackening grip, and the assailant lost his footing. Sherlock briefly drank in his dark shadowy stubble, black eyes widening in surprise, and a long red scar scraping down his left cheek towards his mouth that was open in a silent cry, before he was falling down the stairs. Head over heels he tumbled, gaining speed as he rolled. There was a sickening crack as his skull connected with the bannister at the bottom and then he was quietly motionless.

Through the pandemonium that grew in anguished swells around him, Sherlock was aware of one man moving against the crowds, face twisted in confusion, looking around desperately.

"John!"

"What the..? Sherlock, what's going on?" His friend's grey eyes searched his face and then followed his gaze. "Oh god, what's happened?"

"Come on, we need to get out of here," Sherlock hissed, his deep voice low. He grabbed John roughly around the arm and pushed him up back onto the landing, steering him around the second dance-floor and onto the second emptier staircase that led up to the roof. The metal door clanged loudly shut behind them, and the cold winter blast of wind was the biggest hangover cure he could have wished for.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" John demanded, running hands through his ash coloured hair. "I remember having a drink at the table, and then everything went all peculiar… I left, and I thought you had gone and I was trying to find you but then someone kept talking to me…"

"Someone? Who?"

"A girl… That barmaid girl… She kept talking to me…"

"Distracting you whilst her accomplice attempted to finish me off," Sherlock deduced. He searched the small rooftop for an escape route. "Come on, we'll go down the fire escape and onto level ground."

The metal stair case was flimsy at best and it shook from the howling wind and was slick from the falling rain. They grasped the rails tightly and tried to slow their footing, but from up above they heard the heavy fire door crash open and angry voice's following close behind.

"SHER-LOCK!" John cried, but his second syllable was drowned out by the deafening explosion of gun fire echoing off the rattling stairs.

Both men ducked as the bullets rained down around them, with more than one ricocheting off the steps with angry sparks skimming their bare hands. With only four or five left to jump, Sherlock cleared the stairs and landed cat-like on the ground before breaking into a heavy run, John closed behind.

"Where are we going?" John shouted breathlessly, but Sherlock didn't answer. In the reflection of a passing parked car, he saw two heavy set men give chase after them and a third slighter figure which might have been the woman. The side street they were on was deserted and every so often the pursuers let off a round of gun shots. The nearest hit a wing mirror of another car which exploded into a rain of glass shards that showered down onto them and tinkled to the ground.

"Down here," Sherlock commanded, turning a sharp left down an alleyway that appeared to lead to nowhere. There was no illumination down this tight gap and they seemed to be slipping deeper and deeper into oblivion. Just when John was about to shout that they turn back, Sherlock turned right into a gap that John hadn't even known had existed. The space was so claustrophobically small, they had to stumble forwards using their hands to scrabble purchase on the un-even brick work on either side. The labyrinthine passage turned left and then right and with nothing to see, their sense of smell worked overtime, with the stench of urine, rubbish and rat faeces filling the air. Trying not to gag, John didn't realise that Sherlock had suddenly stopped and ran into the back of him.

"What are you doing? Why have you stopped? They could be right behind us!"

"Shh!" Sherlock said, raising an invisible hand to silence him.

Through the silence that had descended without their rushing footsteps echoing off the walls, John could hear what his friend was listening to. Voices, traffic, street noise. The foul smell of the passageway had given way to the smell of ethnic style cooking; back street wok houses, takeaways, Thai noodle huts and shisha café's. Slowly, they emerged into a brightly lit road, where street lamps and fairy lights lit up the night sky. Pedestrians, cyclists and cars filled the area and soon the two of them were lost in amongst the throngs.

Despite the mediocre comfort of knowing people and therefore witnesses were around, John could not help but continually look over his shoulder. Every man with a fist in his pocket was a sniper ready to attack. Every cyclist veering towards them was an attacker ready to pounce.

"Stop staring," Sherlock hissed, "You'll gain attention."

"Gain attention! _Gain attention?!_" John outraged. "Sherlock it's my bloody stag do and we have just had someone try and spike us both, try and kill you and then been chased through half of bloody London being shot at! I think that's attention enough. Jesus." He took a step backwards and ran his hands through his hair again. "Why on my stag do? A few bloody drinks that's all. And now someone is trying to kill us?"

"I'm not so sure they are trying to kill _us _plural," Sherlock said quietly.

"Oh that's right, I'm good enough to tag along after you and be your accessory but when the shit really hit's the fan, no it's got to be you. Just you being a bloody drama queen –"

"John!" Sherlock said sharply, pointing a pale finger upwards to a brick wall ahead. A message had been crudely daubed in red paint, still so fresh that it was dripping ominously and pooling on the floor like blood.

SH. NO 4 NIGHTINGALE AVENUE. ALONE.

"You're not thinking of actually going? Sherlock, it's obviously a trap!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "They have left an address where anyone with half a brain cell could track them. The bullets missed us. This will be conversation only, I think."

John looked disparagingly at his friend. "Are you willing to chance it? You've only just come back from the dead, don't go straight back there. You don't have to be alone in this. Communicate with me."

Sherlock rounded on his friend, and he could see the concern there. Genuine compassion. His expression softened. "If we were meant to be killed, they could have easily finished us off. It was a ploy, a big distraction to get us here. And they want me, alone. It could be a double bluff, wanting us both in one go – so why fall into it? I am convinced it will just be talks, and John, I need information. Go home. Go home to Mary, to your future wife. Get ready for your wedding and hang on, on the outside." He turned and began to stride away, his long legs carrying him away quickly.

"Don't think dying this time will get you out of the best man's speech," John called warningly.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock let the crowds melt quietly behind him as though were echoes of a distant past. Soon the smell of food and laughter and chatter had all faded away.

With his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and his now iconic Belstaff collar flicked up against the bracing cold, Sherlock moved quickly but elegantly, organising his thoughts neatly so that he would be utterly prepared for what awaited him. Two men and a woman had been chasing him. Either they had had the coincidental foresight to realise where they were headed and intercepted them, or there was at least a fourth person working as part of the group waiting for him. And they wanted him separate to John. A personal enemy who wanted him one on one? Or a wise adversary who knew that he was probably weakest, although still almost invincible, without his confidantes away from him.

The area became steadily more suburban as he walked. Black dustbins littered the streets, overflowing with rubbish sacks. Cardboard boxes lay flattened and congealing in the night drizzle. A vixen scouted through the refuge, black nose glistening wetly, ginger ears pricked and alert. The she-fox paused, paw half raised from the ground and sniffed the air as he approached, but he turned a side street and left her to her prowling.

The air held the tang of the Thames, and wheeling seagulls screaming above him told him he was close to the water. These birds seemed to have no concept of night and day. He crossed the road and followed the tattered sign for Nightingale Avenue. For the first time, Sherlock paused. There were no houses or built up residences that he was expecting. Just a series of spookily abandoned warehouses. An owl hooted somewhere, and the flutter of wings beating seemed to surround him on all sides. Soft footsteps scampering away in the distance. A lesser man would have been chilled, even scared. But Sherlock did not believe in ghost stories. If Baskerville had proved anything, it was that even behind the most frightening of entities normally lurked a criminal with an elaborate cover up. His demons would be flesh and blood and he would treat them as such. Tightening his coat about him, he pressed on, pulling out his torch and flashing it on full beam.

The fourth warehouse along was by far the most decrepit. In parts there was no roof at all, and where the corrugated iron had been torn up, were large pools of water. The wind howled like a caged spectre and the entire structure rattled like a thing possessed. Sherlock's smart shoes clacked loudly over the uneven floorboards, and more than once caught an overhanging loose nail. Bats fluttered and dipped overhead. He shone on the torch around; above was torn up steel tiles and star speckled black sky and thick cloud, on the floor was nothing but large empty looking crates.

"You came."

The voice was technologically distorted, and it came out of nowhere so suddenly that Sherlock almost jumped. He turned, flashing the torch beam over a genderless shape, buried in an oversized black coat, with a floppy hat pulled down low to distort their face. With darkness all around, the torch beam could only pick up so much.

"Your instructions were clear yet ambiguous," Sherlock ventured. "Why take the trouble of arranging a cosy appointment, when before you were happy to let the guns do the talking."

"A good way to get attention, but the guns were not mine."

"Not yours?" Sherlock frowned. "Then why –?"

"Because I think I know who is after you and why."

"And you would offer that information because…?"

"One good turn deserves another."

The shape was moving, a figure unravelling beneath the heavy folds of the coat. Sherlock kept his torch beam down for a second as a flash of realisation rippled through him. But he dared not believe it. Straining to keep his voice level and confident he said, "You might as well ditch the voice changer now."

"Does it do nothing for you? I'm disappointed. But very well…" Sherlock upturned the beam slightly so it fell over the figure. A pale arm reached out of the sleeve and threw the voice changer onto the floor where it rolled noisily. A second arm poked out, red painted fingers deftly unbuttoning the coat. Slowly, seductively. The coat fell open and to the floor, revealing the figure of a woman clad only in black and red underwear and a pair of teeteringly high black heels. Her skin was flawless, her dark curls pinned back onto the top of her head, revealing her long and bare neck.

She was always the one to rob him of his usually mind-blurringly fast thought processes. His deep gravelly voice stuck in his throat and his eyes widened in spite of himself. It had been so long and she had not changed one bit. "Miss Adler, how nice of you to drop by…"

Irene smiled placidly. "Do you like what I did with the place?"

"I would have thought minimalist for your tastes but it'll linger," Sherlock said, biding his time. The night was bitterly cold, yet why was it suddenly so warm in here..?

And then she was crossing the space between them, walking effortlessly in those monstrously high heels, as easily as though she were gliding through the air. She was tall, particularly in those shoes, so that her eyes were almost at a level with his. She was walking into the beam of light so that it pooled on her bare mid-drift, shunting the illumination it could provide, until there was just the two of them in their own little cocoon.

"Did you miss me, Sherlock?" she asked sweetly, her tongue playing lightly against her red painted lips that glistened impossibly wetly…

"I knew were you were. Or I thought I did. Miss wouldn't be acc–"

"You know what I mean. Still as sexy as ever," she teased, reaching up and wrapping her surprisingly strong arms around his rigid neck. "I've missed you. We never did get to have that dinner…"

All of his answers turned to ash in his mouth, his one-liners and smart come backs curled up and fried in his mind. He felt her cool hand brush a lock of his hair from his forehead, felt her warm breath cascade over his face. The smell of her perfumed filled his nostrils and clouded his mind. His wrist suddenly grew weak from holding up the torch, and all it seemed to be shining on was her chest.

"I wonder…" Irene whispered. "If you weren't hungry enough for dinner, if you would indulge me in a mere morsel? A starter perhaps? Or should we skip straight to dessert?" Her voice trailed lightly, fairy dust enveloped by the atmosphere. And then here her arms tightened slightly and she was reaching up. Her face was shrouded in shadow where the torch beam could not find it, he couldn't see her but he could smell her, feel her…

Her lips brushed lightly against his, the very lightest of caresses. He could feel the texture of her lipstick, taste its light flavour. _Cherry, of course_. His mind was a melted blur of sensation. He wanted to speak to say something, he felt so helpless… And then he felt her tongue press insistently against his mouth, and his body betrayed him, letting her in, always letting her in… She pressed deeper against him, her bare thigh lifting for her heel to wrap tightly around his legs, her teeth gently biting down on his lower lip. She parted painfully slowly away from him, a soft sigh escaping her mouth, her fingers trailing a sharp path down his cheekbone. Sherlock felt his throat tighten, his breath catch, a flush in his face. He felt vulnerable, relieved and confused all at once.

"Hmm, now, never did a nibble make me want to take the full bite as much as that, Mr Holmes," Irene whispered, her dark eyes flashing wickedly in the dim light. Her hand brushed over his hand and then reached for the torch. "You're holding onto that thing for dear life, but I wonder what would happen to us in the dark?"

"Batteries," he mumbled, watching her arch a perfectly pruned eyebrow. "It has batteries…"

"And an off button…" she breathed, her fingers stroking down his and then softly reaching for the button. There was a click and then they were plunged into utter darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sherlock…_

_It's him…_

_Of course it's him…_

_We need him._

_Kill him._

_Sherlock –_

_Let's play with him._

_Get him now, this may be our only chance. Do it!_

_SHERLOCK!_

"Wake up. You must wake up. Now!"

Through the fog that was clearly his dreams, Sherlock awoke. He blinked, once, twice. Weighted balls seemed to rest on his eyelids and the action seemed to make him nauseas. A vivid pain shot through his head like an electric current, from the base of his skull through to his temples. Bright spots popped before his eyes and the world seemed to be moving far slower than he remembered. Slowly, his blue gaze scanned the room. Brightness was the only noticeable factor; he was in a world of blinding whiteness, with no furniture or windows. The floor could have been the ceiling. He was alone in this pristine and clinical world.

Somewhere behind him, the void was opened and something or someone entered. Two someones. He craned his neck to try and look but found he could not move. He was on his knees on the hard, cold and unyielding floor. No straps or ropes binding him. And yet he could not move. The first frisson of fear pulsed through him.

Two blurry shapes floated into his vision, and slowly sharpened. The first, taller figure threw the second to the floor beside him. Gradually clarity returned. The woman sprawled next to him, an ill-fitting man's size black shirt half covering her modesty. Her hair was unruly and tangled, as though fistfuls had been pulled and grabbed roughly. One of her impressive black heels had snapped and was dangling by threads of fibrous sinew. Her scarlet lipstick was smeared, and something as crassly red, but not so cosmetic was dripping from a cut above her eye.

Sherlock frowned, forcing sense and reasoning to return to him, his most loyal companions. Irene… He had seen her before, hadn't he? She had been talking to him, teasing him… befuddling his consciousness as only she could. But wasn't that a dream? His unconscious mind was the only place he allowed himself to be vulnerable. That was the only place that she was permitted to plague his thoughts and only then if he could be sure he would not remember in the morning. He looked again. She seemed real.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

The blow came out of nowhere and cut her across the left side of her face, splitting her lip and knocking her to the ground. The perpetrator was a man he did not recognise. At least he assumed he did not – he was wearing an expressionless white mask, with holes only for the black pits that were his eyes. Sherlock instinctively made to move forwards but his body would not obey. Instead he stayed slumped on his knees, with his head only able to hang uselessly onto his chest. The man dropped down into a bouncing crouch, as though at any moment he were ready to spring into an attack and grabbed Irene by the hair and pulled her roughly, until she was facing Sherlock, eyes dry but afraid. The white masked face lowered until it was pressing into her bruised cheek.

"Look at this face, Sherlock. It may be the last chance you get to see it whole." The voice burbling from the closed plastic lips was guttural and effected by the same voice changing equipment that Irene had discarded in the warehouse.

"Who…who are you?" Every word was a struggle, as though his very vocal chords had been paralysed too. His body was compromised, some external force inhibiting him. But at his core burned his anger, his fire and the smouldering embers of this building rage shone through his blue almond eyes.

"An enemy of your enemy, but not your friend," the plastic mask taunted. "But that's nothing new is it? You're used to not having friends. Being alone. You survived in the wilderness for two years, didn't you? No outside help. Apart from Molly Hooper to begin with. And your brother Mycroft in Serbia. But apart from that…" The white face cocked to the side as though thinking. "But wait, doesn't John Watson normally assist you on your adventures?"

"John…" Sherlock forced out the word, his thoughts verbalised. Where was he? Why had he sent him back home?

"Don't worry, he's safe for now," the face continued. "But we have him watched. We have all your…ah…'associates' watched, Sherlock. And when the time is right, we will take them down. Each and every one of them. I won't make the same mistake as your other enemy did. I will make sure I see you fall, one way or another."

"Why?" Slowly, the speech was becoming easier. Each word was an effort but it was becoming more lucid and coherent. "Why not just kill me now? You have me disorientated, weakened, confused. I am locked away, with no idea where I am. And any back up, if any was coming, would surely come too late. Why make the mistake that Moriarty did, and just finish the job now?"

The hand gripping Irene Adler's hair tightened, and the mask drew closer to her purpling flesh and the sound of a deep rasping breath filtered out through the eye holes. Sherlock was surprised at how much it irked and disturbed him. "Why bother completing a puzzle when you can see the finished picture on the box? Moriarty got that much right. Playing the game is half the fun…" He let Irene slip forwards so that she fell into Sherlock. For a long moment, she stayed down, as though afraid to be abused any more. Sherlock could not have imagined her so weak and broken. He wanted to reach out and offer some semblance of comfort, hold her even. But he could not.

Before he had chance to utter even a syllable of reassurance, the door behind them opened again. The muscles in his neck had not returned enough for him to turn around and then the darkness was enclosing him once again. A blindfold was pulled around his eyes blocking everything out, dulling his senses, closing the world off. His limp and useless arms were pulled back behind him but it felt as though the limbs belonged to someone else and he felt no pain. The rough rope binding his wrists together could have been the lightest caress of a silken feather for all the sensation he felt. A thick and callused hand grabbed a fistful of his thick hair and forced him to his feet, although he wasn't entirely convinced he would be able to sustain his own weight. Stumblings and anguished cries told him that beside him, Irene was receiving the same warm treatment.

Together they were forced out of the room and into a narrow corridor that was paved in stone from the cold that staunched Sherlock's bare feet. There was not room for both captives to be pushed along simultaneously, so Sherlock concentrated on what was behind him. His muscles were still weakened, their usage only slowly returning, but he commanded the senses he could use to be reactive. _Sensitive_. He inhaled deeply… He could smell the salty tang of sweat lingering on unwashed body and clothes behind him, unmistakeably a man. Beside him was the far more preferable floral notes of Irene's perfume. He could hear the rustle of fabric scraping as his captor walked. Cotton? No. Polyester? No. _Denim_. The hands that grabbed and pushed him were squat and fat fingered, smaller than his own and in his mind's eye he could picture a man, a good five inches shorter than him, slightly thick around the middle but broad shouldered with bulging muscles and a nasty temper. His footfalls were heavy and echoed on the stone with a slight metallic ring, indicating steel toe capped boots. The very slight irregularity to them indicated a minor limp. Beside him, Irene was pushed into his side, chastised by someone with a harsh tone and an accent to his words. Serbian? Polish? _Bulgarian._

The corridor turned left, and Sherlock was steered to follow its course. Ahead of them, a metal door clanged open and a cold blast of air washed over him. A few drops of rain splattered over his face, but he found the touch refreshing. He counted the steps and then there was wet and uneven concrete beneath his feet. His toes curled at the sensation of loose gravel and wetness underfoot, but he told himself to ignore it. Something bad was going to happen and he needed to prepare.

They were pushed forward for a full minute of silence and then pulled to an abrupt halt. The wind rippled through Sherlock's hair and clawed at his cheekbones and chapped lips. He could smell the river water and hear the waves lapping at the wall in front. His stomach clenched.

"Sherlock, if you have a plan, about now would be a good time to voice it!" Irene's voice called before the wind and a fist snatched it away from her.

The man with mask leaned close to Sherlock, stepping between his comrades and exhaling his smoky breath into his ear. "But you don't have a plan, do you? Don't worry. You're secret is safe with me." There was a harsh push in the small of his back and Sherlock's knees connected with the brick in front and then he was falling forwards into a void.

The air whipped past him like he was a mouse in a hurricane. He was being sucked forwards at a speed he could not contemplate, for a time he did not know. Then the water enveloped him. Cold and dirty river water invaded his nostrils and mouth, soaked his clothes, and drenched him all over. He heard Irene hit the water and sink beside him and a curious notion hit him. His arms were still useless and even with full strength they were rendered immobile by the rough rope. His legs were limp and dead weight and he was sinking fast like a stone, a blind, weakened stone. He heard nothing but the water's roar in his ears and felt its curious kiss on his skin and realised that he was drowning. Lungs burning and throat harsh from a silent scream, he relinquished into the higher power and let the darkness take him.


End file.
